


Tempo

by annundriel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time loses meaning in the Bull’s room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempo

Time loses meaning in the Bull’s room. Dorian goes in, and then an hour, two hours, five hours—a day!—could pass and he’d hardly even know it. The time there is marked less by the minutes on the clock, the passage of the sun and moon in the sky, and more by the press of the Bull’s fingers, the incremental adjustments of their pleasure. The number of times Dorian comes.

Dorian’s not complaining; far from it, actually. He likes where he is now, where _they_ are. It’s taken some negotiating, but the Bull is…open, and Dorian is very talented with his tongue.

So is the Bull, as it turns out. He’d spent several hours specifically showing Dorian just how talented he is after Dorian had shown him that thing with his tongue, the one that had made the Bull’s toes curl and, he’d claimed, come harder than he had in years.

 _Andraste’s tits, Dorian,_ , he’d said after, breathless and chuckling. _Where the fuck did you learn that?_

 _Natural aptitude_ , Dorian had answered, which was mostly true. He wasn’t _only_ a prodigy in magic.

They complement each other, it turns out, and that had surprised Dorian at first. And then it had terrified him. Still does, sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly…well. They’ve got a good thing going between them, though, he thinks. He knows the Bull agrees; not only has he overheard him say as much—bragging, apparently—in the tavern, he’s also watched the Bull become strangely shy, asking Dorian, gaze earnest, _What we’ve got is good, kadan, isn’t it?_

It had been a side of Bull he hadn’t really seen before, and something warm had bubbled up within Dorian, endearing the Bull to him even more than—He’d cleared his throat and nodded, reached for the Bull with open hands, kissed him deep and thorough. It had been good.

It is good.

As the Bull’s fingers stroke over the rope—soft, a deep, rich red that reminds Dorian of wine—he wraps around Dorian’s wrist, Dorian watches him from beneath his lashes. The eyepatch is gone, tossed (by Dorian) on the nightstand, and his face is relaxed, though Dorian knows he’s concentrating on the knots, the placement of the ropes. The Bull could do this with his eye closed, but he still takes the time, does it right.

“You’re staring, kadan.” His fingers pull at the rope, adjusting it around Dorian’s left wrist.

The word fills him with warmth, and he lets his eyes drop to follow the curve of the Bull’s chest. He’s broad and muscled, scars marring his skin. Dorian’s pressed his fingers to those scars, followed them with his mouth down, down, down. 

“I am,” he says, licking his lips.

The Bull chuckles, hands lingering on Dorian’s forearm, one of them coming up to cup the back of his head before it moves along Dorian’s neck to his shoulder, down his free arm to his wrist. “You like what you see?”

There’d been a time when Dorian would have said no, when he would have denied the attraction he felt. Even now, he still does, though they both know he’s not serious when he says it, their eyes catching, secret smiles shared.

(Perhaps not so secret; Sera teases him about them on a regular basis.)

“There’s a lot of it,” he says, and they both know—do they? _does_ he?—know that what Dorian really means is, _yes, I do, I don’t know what I was thinking before_.

A huff of amusement, and then the Bull’s breath against the side of his face, his lips hot against Dorian’s ear. “And you like all of it.”

Dorian swallows hard and nods, which earns him a kiss to his cheek, then one on his lips. When the Bull pulls away, his fingers are firm on Dorian’s wrist, a little rough where callouses have built up. Dorian shivers and rolls onto his front as the Bull tugs at him, pulling his wrist into place. The rope is soft, cool against Dorian’s overheated skin. He shifts on the bed, sighing at the feel of the sheets against his cock. Against his wrist, the Bull’s fingers pause, and then one hand is gone to press against the small of Dorian’s back, stilling him.

“Wait,” he says, and Dorian stills with a groan. “Patience is a virtue, Dorian.”

“Have I ever struck you as particularly virtuous, amatus?”

The Bull laughs, hand stroking up Dorian’s back to grip his shoulder, squeezing briefly before he lets go. Dorian’s body dips with the movement of the mattress as the Bull stands, and he twists his head to watch him, taking in the way his cock tents the front of his trousers. His mouth waters, and his entire body goes hot with expectant want.

“You’re a little overdressed,” he says, his voice coming out thick, deep. He’s exposed like this, naked and tied to the Bull’s bed, but the only place he’d rather be is on his knees with Bull’s cock in his throat. He’s almost regretting his earlier request for the rope now, his blood is singing so loud.

Looking down at himself, the Bull shrugs, looks up at Dorian through his lashes. The corner of his mouth curls in a way that makes Dorian shudder. “Am I?” he asks. “Or maybe you’d like me to fuck you like this. You naked on the bed, hands bound, me still clothed. I could slip my pants down just enough to get my cock out, press it against that sweet ass of yours. Let you feel the fastenings as I take you.”

 _Fuck_.

“Or maybe we’ll save that for some other time. Away from Skyhold. Maybe in a tent. Or maybe we’ll sneak off somewhere in the Emerald Graves. Plenty of groves and caves, places to hide you away. I could strip you naked and press you against a tree, get you all dirty and messed up as I slide my cock into you, as you bite your lip and try not to make a sound.”

He’s not an exhibitionist, not really. Not when it comes to _this_. This is his, wholly and completely. His. No one can take it away from him. No one gets to see it.

But the thought of the Bull in the Graves, of the bark against his chest and the Bull against his back, the sound of his panting mingling with the sound of the river and the—He shudders. “Bull,” he says, fingers twitching against the wood of the headboard. “ _Maker_ , fine. I’ll let you fuck me outside. _If you get those horrific pants off right now_.”

The Bull laughs, loud and booming, and Dorian’s heart clenches. He didn’t know—well. He knew sex could be fun—he’s experienced in that respect—but he didn’t know it could be like…this, their laughter mingling with their moans, their enjoyment of one another obvious, heady and grounding at the same time. When they’d first fallen in together (and then fall into bed together), he never would have guess they’d end up here.

Sometimes when he catches the Bull looking at him, face serious across the room, he recalls a similar expression from the months before and wonders if, maybe, the Bull did.

“Bossy!” He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of the trousers, and then bends, removing them in one movement, kicking them off into the corner of the room. “I like it.”

He’s everything and nothing like Dorian was expecting, when he let himself think about the possibility. He’s muscled and thick and—almost—overwhelming in the simple sheer amount of him, but he’s soft where Dorian was least expecting it (the skin at the juncture of his hips, for example; like silk, practically) and curved and looking at him now makes Dorian’s heart race and ache at the same time. He wants, only, to be touched.

“Then you’ll get over here and fuck me instead of lolloping about.” He tugs at the bindings, enjoying the way they keep him from doing much besides ordering the Bull.

“Why? You got someplace to be, Dorian? A hot date, later? Someone else’s bed you’re going to soak with sweat and come?”

Dorian swallows hard, watches him close the distance between them. “Uh. No. Bull, you know I don’t—”

The Bull’s fingers are light against his back, slipping down his spine to tease at the rise of his ass. Toes digging into the mattress, Dorian tries to get some purchase to push up into them. “Then be patient.”

His hand disappears, and then Bull himself disappears—a feat—from Dorian’s line of sight, slipping past the end of the bed to rummage in the armoire he had moved in. It stores mostly weapons and those awful pants, extra harnesses and belts, a spare brace for his ankle. And oils. Bottles of oil that don’t smell like much of anything, but feel incredible, easing the way and making Dorian’s toes curl.

He’s back a moment later, the bed dipping by Dorian’s feet, knees nudging them apart as large hands push his thighs.

“Comfortable, kadan?”

Dorian nods because yes, he is. His complaints have nothing to do with his comfort level, they never do. The Bull is—Maker. He’s good at what he does. Patient and understanding and so very thorough.

His hand rests on the curve of Dorian’s ass. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes, I’m quite comfortable. Save for my unattended erection and—”

The hand on his ass comes down with a resounding _slap_ , sending a sharp shock of pain and pleasure through Dorian.

“What—!”

“You’re fine.” His hand is back, this time his fingers pressing between Dorian’s cheeks, pushing forward to tease against him. Dorian bites his lip, trying not to groan at the sensation, to swear at Bull for taking so long to just _fuck him already_.

The Bull chuckles, one finger pressing slightly inward, as he shifts his weight and hovers over Dorian. “I don’t know why you’re biting your lip,” he says, words brushing against Dorian’s ear. “You know I like to hear you.”

Dorian groans at that, lets it slip out. Loves the way the Bull hums momentarily above him before slipping back, hands busy with the oil. The next time he touches Dorian, his fingers are cool and slick and Dorian arches back into the touch, pulling slightly at the binding, wanting more. Wanting so much for.

“You’re eager today, kadan,” the Bull says, one great finger pressing against the ring of Dorian’s muscle, then in, in, and _there_ , just where Dorian—“Have you been thinking about this?”

A huff of laughter, Dorian’s heart in his throat, his cock throbbing beneath him. He can tell the truth here, in a way he can’t anywhere else, not yet, so he does. “You know I have,” he breathes. “You know I—fuck!” He doesn’t know if he wants to push back against the Bull’s fingers or pull forward, if he wants to fuck himself open on them already or wait for another, wait for Bull’s cock.

“You were watching me train.”

Dorian nods, licks his lips. “I was. You—Maker—I wanted to—” What, go down and join them? No, hardly. He’d wanted to leap down the stairs, run outside, push through the other people sparring and grab the Bull, wrap his fingers tight in the leather of his harness and drag him away from there to somewhere more private. He’d refrained, but only barely, chosen instead to pick one of the more dry copies in the Inquisition library and focus on translation. It had been…difficult.

But now he’s here and there’s sweat beading at the small of his back and the Bull’s finger is tucked up inside him and he’ll ache pleasantly all over when they’re through, he knows he will. So it’s worth it.

“I wanted you to myself.”

He can hear the grin in the Bull’s voice when he responds, “I’m sure you did. Now how do you want me?”

 _Anyway I can have you_ , he wants to say. He bites the words back, instead swallows hard and says, “Fuck me. Quit playing, and _fuck me_.”

The Bull’s finger twists inside him before pulling out, pushing back in.

Dorian’s hands clench.

“Like that, Dorian? Is that what you want?”

Under his breath, he swears in Tevene as the Bull’s finger pulls back, pushes in. “You—You know that’s not what I meant, you tease.”

The Bull chuckles, his free hand coming up to run up Dorian’s spine. His fingers span the space between Dorian’s shoulder blades, and he stops when he reaches Dorian’s neck. Dorian lets his head drop, silently begging the Bull for his hand to travel farther, for his palm on the back of his neck. The Bull doesn’t move, though, only sits there with his hand on Dorian and his finger in Dorian’s ass. Dorian wants to scream.

That’s probably the reason the Bull does it.

“Your cock,” he says. “I want your cock, you big lum—”

The hand is gone, the finger removed. Dorian groans in disappointment.

“You think name calling is going to get you anywhere?”

He’d be concerned, except he can hear the Bull handling the bottle of oil now. He looks back over his shoulder and, sure enough, the Bull is slicking his fingers, fisting his cock in one hand and slicking that, too. Smirking, Dorian says, “It got us this far, didn’t it? Can’t be all bad.”

The Bull smirks in return, sits back on his heels. He’s showing off, muscles in his chest and arm flexing; Dorian can’t help but stare. He never thought—In all his years—

He is a lucky man. A very lucky man. The Bull isn’t anything like what he imagined himself with, back when he was young and idealistic and he hadn’t yet been hit in the face with certain realities. But Dorian wouldn’t have anything else now, given the choice. The Bull is a good man, a great man, kind and surprisingly gentle, hard and tough, but soft if you know where to look. Dorian knows where to look, he’s been ferretting those places out for a while now, and he likes what he sees. Likes the man he thinks _Bull_ sees.

Leering down at him, the Bull strokes his cock and nods, says, “No, not bad at all,” and then his hands are on Dorian’s hips and the world shifts until Dorian’s knees are under him, his cock hanging heavy between his belly and the bed, and the head of the Bull’s cock is pushing against him, pushing in, slowly and surely and—

There is nothing but the Bull. Nothing but his calloused hands, his knees spreading Dorian’s, his thighs thick and hot. Nothing but the smell of his sheets against Dorian’s cheek, the smell of them both heavy in the air as his cock pressing inexorably forward, Dorian keening, pushing back, wanting more. _Needing_ more. Maker, but if he had known, if he had only _known_ the way the Bull would touch him, the way he would fuck him with determination, with focus and abandon, he would have started this much sooner.

If time magic wasn’t so dangerous, he’d go back himself, get in his own face. Insist he grab the bull by the horns, as it were, and take every opportunity he can to see past his own prejudice and the Bull’s own manners to the man underneath. Because this…this…

“Fuck!”

The Bull’s hips snap against his, pushing Dorian into the mattress, pushing his curled hands against the wood of the headboard.

“You paying attention, Dorian?” His hips move backward, his cock a slow drag out that makes Dorian shiver. “Seemed like you were drifting off there, not paying attention.” His hips snap forward again, a hard movement that makes the headboard shudder against the wall and Dorian’s whole body ache in the best way possible. “Am I boring you?”

Fingers and toes curling, Dorian turns his head, tries to look at the Bull behind him, wishes suddenly for a mirror in which to see the place where they connect, where the Bull’s cock presses into him. Maybe if he can order one? No one needs to know what he has in mind for it.

“Believe me,” he says through gritted teeth. “Believe me, you have my—fuck!—full attention.”

A raise of an eyebrow and the Bull’s hand moves from his hip to brush against his cock, a tease of movement. “Do I?” he asks, briefly wrapping his hand around Dorian before it’s gone, back to his hip. “Somehow I doubt that.”

 _No_ , Dorian wants to say. _No, you have my attention. You’ve had it. For longer than I wanted to admit. For longer than even_ I _realized_. They haven’t talked about it, not yet, not really. They’ve talked _around_ it, and they trust each other with their lives, but they haven’t said the words. Haven’t made that commitment that Dorian thinks he sees coming on the horizon, big and bright as the sun. _No_ , he wants to say, _you have me_.

Instead, he swears in Tevene when the Bull’s hips snap forward the prelude to a pace Dorian had been longing for since earlier when he’d seen the Bull training. It’s hard and it’s fast, hitting that spot inside of him just right when the Bull changes the cant of his hips and the grip of his hands and fucks into him like the world really is ending this time, going up in a ball of flame and ash, his only salvation here with Dorian if he can just make Dorian yell louder, come harder.

He’s close. It’s ridiculous how close he is. He isn’t an inexperienced adolescent anymore; he’s a grown man. A grown man with experience, who knows what he likes and what he doesn’t and isn’t afraid to say so. And yet here he is, wrists bound and cock barely touched and he’s close, he’s _so close_ he can practically taste it, his muscles tightening as—

The Bull’s hips stutter, and his hands are bruising hard on Dorian as he bellows, and Dorian, Dorian can feel him coming. He can feel it, hot and wet, filling him up, filling him until he’s overflowing.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, _Bull_.” He pushes his hips back, wants to come himself, is so close he can—“Bull. Fuck me, please, fucking _make me_ come, you bas—No, no, where are you— _where are you going?_ ”

Dorian tugs at the bindings, heart frantic in his chest. The Bull had been there, cock deep, come filling him, and Dorian had been ready to follow, ready to fall, and suddenly he’s gone, hands gone, cock slipping free.

“Bull,” he says. “What’re you doing? Where are you going? I can’t—”

The bed shifts and the Bull’s hands are on his him again, moving from hips to ass, pulling his cheeks apart. His breath is hot, and Dorian twitches, feels himself flush hard. Can only imagine how he looks, freshly fucked, the Bull’s come dripping out of him.

“Fuck, kadan, you look good enough to eat,” the Bull rumbles, and then his mouth is there, his wide, hot tongue licking at Dorian’s hole, the tip pressing in.

Dorian swears and groans, can imagine little as filthy as the Bull licking himself out of Dorian. Can imagine little else at this very moment that would set his body alight like the Bull’s face pressed against him, tongue slipping in where his cock has just been, tasting them both against Dorian’s skin. There’s something about that thought, something about the Bull’s mouth _there_ , face buried where the two of them is concentrated the highest, moaning and holding Dorian still that makes Dorian’s breath catch and his toes curl, his eyes roll back in his head.

“Ffffff,” he says, inelegantly, and tries to fuck himself back on the Bull’s tongue when the Bull’s chuckle rumbles up through him. He wants _more_ , but the Bull’s too far away, teasing him, the vibrations of his amusement driving Dorian wild.

But then—Maker be praised—then he shifts closer, his tongue working deeper. Dorian claws at the sheets, wants only to come, to feel Bull’s tongue in him when he does.

The Bull pulls away, and Dorian groans a protest until he hears the words coming out of the Bull’s mouth. Praise for how good they taste like this, how perfect Dorian’s ass is. How perfect _Dorian_ is. He feels that mouth move against him, hot and wet, to suck a hickey on the curve of his ass. He’ll feel it—he’ll feel all of it—for days to come.

It’s perfect.

Maker, it’s perfect. What did Dorian ever do to deserve this?

His thighs shake, and the sheets are wet against his temple, sweat-soaked. His voice is hoarse and his cock aches, and he thinks he’ll never come, never. That Bull will keep him here like this for innumerable days and weeks, months and years. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, tied to the Bull’s bed, kept by him. Cared for. He’d get used to it, if he could only—

“You want to come, don’t you, kadan? You’re so good. So patient.” His hands are large on Dorian’s cheeks, and he readjusts his grip, spreading him again. The noise he makes sends shivers up Dorian’s spine. “Fuck, Dorian. You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I…have some idea,” Dorian says, and then anything else he might want to say is lost in the press of the Bull’s tongue as he licks, once, at Dorian’s hole before pressing in, pressing deep, fucking him just right, _just there_.

Dorian comes with a groan, his cock untouched, his entire body going stiff and then lax, muscles relaxing even as the Bull continues to mouth at him, working him through it.

He loses time after that, but it hardly matters. He knows the Bull will take care of him. He always does.

The Bull’s fingers on his wrists are big and warm and soothing, rubbing carefully. They continue from his wrists to his forearms, his elbows, his upper arms, his shoulders—rubbing, stroking—until Dorian sighs and reaches for him, hands tugging at whatever he can get ahold of. These touches are nice, they’re perfect, but he wants the Bull pressed against him, wants the heat of his body soaking into his own.

Above him, the Bull chuckles; it’s a relaxed, happy sound that makes Dorian’s toes curl and his heart thump. _Maker_ , he’s far gone.

Thankfully, he suspects Bull is, too.

“Something you want, kadan?”

 _You_ , Dorian thinks, and then, _fuck it_. “You,” he says, voice rough at the edges. “And sleep. You and sleep. Can we do that?”

Silence above, the riotous sound of his heart below, and then the Bull’s mouth on the back of his neck as gentle as his breath, as warm as those fingers. “Sounds good to me.”


End file.
